


I put a spell on you

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Melancholy, Partnership
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7





	1. Chapter 1

The memories of what had taken place in the shadows on their last mission pulled Illya Kuryakin into an uncomfortable mood as he lay in the dark, curled up on his old sofa listening to the moody sounds of Miles Davis. When the song was done he rose slowly, cat-like, reaching for another of the vinyl albums stacked carefully beside the old phonograph. He stroked the records edge, holding it carefully, caressing it like a lover as he placed it on the turntable.

The Russian refused to convert to those magnetic cassette recordings, as they seemed to lack the tactile sensation that only a record album gave him when he held it in that brief moment of anticipation.

Though a scientist and enamored of technology, vinyl was a near anachronism he held onto with a hidden passion.

The voice of Nina Simone filled the room now, her deep dulcet tones singing  _  “Ne me quitte pas _ _ , a _ track on her “ _ I Put A Spell On You” album. _

That was what this music did to him, allowing him to retreat to another world, spellbound safe and secure.

“ _ Ne me quitte pas, Il faut oublier, tout peut s'oublier...Don’t leave me, we have to forget, everything can be forgotten. That is flying away already Forget the time, the misunderstandings and the time that was lost, Trying to understand how these hours can be forgotten. Those that are killing sometimes with why’s that hurt like punches, the heart of happiness....” _

Those words cut deep, like the wounds he’d received this last time. He’d snuck out of headquarters, refusing to submit to a post mission medical exam.  He’d been hurt worse before, and would have to hide his limp for a bit.

The music was slowly lulling him to sleep, allowing him to forget his troubles. But the spell was broken by the chirp of a communicator and familiar words he’d heard spoken so many times before.

 

“Illya I need you.”

The Russian refused to convert to those magnetic cassette recordings, as they seemed to lack the tactile sensation that only a record album gave him when he held it in that brief moment of anticipation.

Though a scientist and enamored of technology, vinyl was a near anachronism he held onto with a hidden passion.

The voice of Nina Simone filled the room now, her deep dulcet tones singing “Ne me quitte pas, a track on her “I Put A Spell On You” album.

That was what this music did to him, allowing him to retreat to another world, spellbound safe and secure.

“Ne me quitte pas, Il faut oublier, tout peut s'oublier...Don’t leave me, we have to forget, everything can be forgotten. That is flying away already Forget the time, the misunderstandings and the time that was lost, Trying to understand how these hours can be forgotten. Those that are killing sometimes with why’s that hurt like punches, the heart of happiness....”

Those words cut deep, like the wounds he’d received this last time. He’d snuck out of headquarters, refusing to submit to a post mission medical exam.  He’d been hurt worse before, and would have to hide his limp for a bit.

The music was slowly lulling him to sleep, allowing him to forget his troubles. But the spell was broken by the chirp of a communicator and familiar words he’d heard spoken so many times before.

“Illya I need you.”

“Kuryakin here.” His voice was dull, giving away his mood.

“Illya, can you come over to my place?” Napoleon asked.

“Is it an emergency?”

 

“No, but if you could get here as soon as you can. Out”

He put the communicator down on the coffee table with a sigh and thought there was no rest for the weary. Duty called, or more precisely his friend did and there was no question he’d go.

Just then a twang of pain struck him. Illya rose slowly from his sofa thinking his avoidance of the post-mission checkup had possibly been a  mistake. The wounds across his back inflicted upon him as a means to make his partner talk were causing more discomfort than he’d anticipated.

He had dry swallowed a few aspirin tablets once he had arrived home, washing away the bitter taste with a shot of ice cold vodka from the bottle he kept in the refrigerator freezer. Not a good combination but at the moment he didn’t care.

The burning sensation on his back was getting worse, forcing him to go into the bathroom, carefully peeling off his undershirt to reveal  some of the welts were redder and swollen. They were most likely becoming infected.

He opened his medicine cabinet, spotting the bottle of ampicillin tablets prescribed to him just over a month ago, and as usual never took.  This time he opted to take them, popping one of the pills and washing it down with a glass of water, hoping they would prevent a stint in a hospital bed in medical.

He limped into the shower, and as the hot water poured down his sore back, staring down at the scars that dotted his body,  his thoughts drifted to the tragedy that had occurred on their mission.

Illya pictured her pretty face, filling him with sadness. She was a lovely woman, dark-haired with green eyes. A student of the arts.  Sylvae Toussant, sweet and virginal in all respects except one. It was rare that he found himself instantly attracted to a woman, and could count the number on one hand. Had he the opportunity, he would have explored that intimacy with her, but the mission came first.

She was delightfully interesting, her laughter charming, like the tinkling of small bells.  And now that sound would never be heard again.

 

She oversaw a gallery in New York that was showing paintings and artwork stolen by the Nazis during the war. They were to be on display for a limited time, loaned by their original owners and the museums from where they had been taken.  Priceless paintings by Van Gogh,  Johannes Vermeer, Degas, Bartolome Esteban Murillo, Bartolome, Cézanne and even the altarpiece of Veit Stoss and a statue by Michelangelo. These priceless pieces had not been seen in public since before World War II.

 

U.N.C.L.E. discovered these treasures were to be the target of art thieves, Illya and Napoleon were sent to prevent the theft. It was the more transportable paintings the ring of thieves were after, perhaps for themselves like the Recollectors...

Napoleon came up with a brilliant plan and hid the artwork, not even telling his partner but then, both he and Illya were taken captive. The would-be thieves beat Illya in hopes of forcing Solo to reveal where he’d put the paintings.  Little did they know, they were all hanging right there in the gallery under the thieves’ noses, covered over by other modernist paintings of much lesser value and of no significant interest.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents managed to escape with Sylvae’s help, but ordered her to leave the gallery and to get away. They thought she had done so, but instead she hid herself in the office, thinking naively she could somehow be of further assistance to them.

The well meaning Sylvae stepped out of her hiding place right into the middle of a gun battle, taking a bullet that was meant for the Russian.  She died as Illya held her in his arms.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya claimed he felt no guilt;  she had been warned and paid the ultimate price for not listening.  In spite of what was said, Napoleon suspected her loss weighed heavily upon his friend’s weary shoulders, but the Russian was a master at masking his feelings, showing no outward signs of what was churning within him.

When he was an agent with the GRU he’d been taught not to care about the deaths of others, they were merely collateral damage and simply to be dismissed.   His fellow operatives did that, or seemed to, but Illya Kuryakin felt the forbidden feelings of regret and grief.  Innocents were his weakness. Napoleon knew that was one of his weaknesses as well, but a weakness he’d never give up.

Perhaps that was why Illya was offered to U.N.C.L.E...he cared. Though he tried to hide it his superiors, he suspected, sensed it.   He was an unseasoned agent and his shortcomings in their eyes made him more expendable.

Alexander Waverly’s words to Illya when he accepted the position with U.N.C.L.E. really didn’t sink in at the time; the man telling him they would prove his Russian superiors wrong about him. *

 

Waverly’s instincts were right, and Kuryakin flourished to become the number two agent in Section II behind his partner and friend Napoleon Solo.

Illya was still out of sorts as he limped down the two flights of stairs in his apartment building to the street below. He hailed a taxi with a loud whistle and climbed into it with a long sigh, mumbling the address of Napoleon’s building to the driver.

 

 

 

* ref  “ Last Goodbye” <http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6766528/1/Last_Goodbye>

 


	3. Chapter 3

Twenty minutes later Illya stood in front of Solo’s penthouse door, opulent digs for a spy whose annual pay barely put him in a lower-middle class income bracket.  Napoleon’s home had been his inheritance along with a sizeable trust fund from his beloved Aunt Amy.

He could have quit his life of espionage and lived quite comfortably, but he simply wasn’t ready to do that.  He craved the action, the danger and lived vicariously through his work, keeping the loneliness at bay by bedding beautiful women.   
  
Napoleon once thought he’d have a life with his beloved Clara, but she rejected him because he wouldn’t give up his work. It was too late now to try to rekindle a life with her, though his trust fund gave him the means to actually walk away from it all. She was married now. End of story.   
  
Illya had put it succinctly after the Terbut Affair...”Just think how life would have been had you not met Clara. The love that you felt for her, the joy of being with her never would have been. Yet by knowing her, though she was lost to you, your life was all the more richer." *  
  
Napoleon Solo had few friends, some buddies from his army days, and Illya of course, who had become more like a brother than a partner and friend.  
.  
  
He set out a pair of lowball glasses on the bar, opening his decanter of scotch and pouring himself a double on the rocks. A bottle of Stoli he had for Illya would stay in the fridge until the Russian arrived.  
  
  
  
  
He paced, sipping his drink as the thoughts about their last mission filled his head. Illya being tortured again, and taking the brunt of the abuse for him. The Russian’s selflessness took its toll on both of them,  but perhaps more mentally than physically this time. When they had parted at headquarters he sensed his partner slipping into one of his dark, melancholy moods.  
  
He heard the familiar knock on the door, and taking a deep breath, prepared himself for whatever might come out of the mouth of his partner or not.  
  
Illya was a man of few words and did not like to be probed when it came to emotions, especially those of the heart.  Napoleon knew that he’d have to tread lightly if his friend was indeed feeling as down as he suspected.  
.

  
  
* ref “Things are what they are” <http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7736122/1/Things_Are_What_They_Are> (under mlaw)


	4. Chapter 4

  
Illya would retreat into that other world of his, one filled with his music and darkened rooms. The loss of an innocent hit him harder than usual as he liked this one, a lot.  Lowering his guard, allowing himself a rare personal connection to a woman made her death hit all that harder.  
  
  
  
  
Napoleon’s head tilted to the familiar coded knock on the door as Illya let himself in, resetting the alarm on the keypad.  
  
“Vodka’s in the freezer.”  
  
“I know.” Illya answered with a dullness to his voice. Ignoring the lowball glass set out for him, he grabbed a tumbler from the kitchen cabinet, filling it halfway with his chilled vodka and headed to his partners sofa, flopping down on it.  He lifted the glass, nearly emptying it.  
  
“Have a little vodka, won’t you.”  
  
Illya snickered at him, filling the glass again as he paused, staring into it before he drank again.  
  
Napoleon watched the scene unfold, confirming his suspicions about the man’s mood.  
  
“So what did you need me for?” Illya suddenly asked, taking a large gulp of his drink.  
  
“I needed you to be here with me.” He answered, swallowing the rest of his scotch then refilled the glass.  
  
“And for what may I ask?” He downed the rest of his drink as well, pouring another one for himself.  
  
“Better be careful tovarisch, you’re going to get drunk.” Napoleon evaded the question, suspecting the man had already been drinking.  
  
  
  
Illya looked rather indignant. “No self respecting Russian gets drunk on vodka, it merely relaxes us.  And what of it if I choose to get drunk?”  
  
The contents of the vodka bottle diminished quickly and it wasn’t long before Illya slipped down from the sofa, sitting cross-legged on the floor and having abandoned the tumbler, swigged directly from the bottle.  
  
Napoleon hadn’t seen Illya drink like this in a long time. There were several ways he could go; he could become argumentative, he could close up even more and retreat into himself, or he could have a reasonable conversation and sort things out.   
  
Napoleon knew he’d have to tread lightly as saying the wrong words, asking the wrong questions would set the Russian off and there would end this little intervention.  
  
“Illya, talk to me?” He asked quietly.  
  
  
“I thought that was what we were doing.” That response came with another swig from the bottle.  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
Illya sighed deeply, “Yes I do.” With an unsteady hand, the put the vodka bottle on the coffee table, then hoisted himself up onto the sofa as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.  His head hung down, saying nothing and at first Napoleon thought his partner had passed out.  
  
“Illya, you still with me?”  
  
“I am always with you,” came a mumbled reply. Illya lifted his head, looking his partner directly in the eyes.  
  
Napoleon smiled at that as the remark told him Illya hadn’t slipped too far yet.


	5. Chapter 5

Napoleon ran his fingers through his hair, forcing that stray lock that always worked its way free to droop to his forehead back into place.  
  
  
  
  
“Look I know Sylvae’s death is really bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
Illya’s face remained placid in spite of the fact that he was annoyed at his partner encroaching upon personal space...his feelings. Now he knew why his Napoleon had called him over.   
  
“What do you think?” He sneered, stiffening up that lower lip of his. His eyes were heavy with drunkenness and he did not want to have this discussion.  
  
“Come on, I know she got to you.  You let yourself get close,  surely her death is eating at you.  She saved you at the cost of her own life.”  
  
Illya gave him a hard cold blue stare. “Sylvae was warned, what she did was her own decision. I did not ask her to put herself between me and that bullet.”   
  
It was not surprising to Solo that his partner spoke with a harshness in his voice, he knew it was part of Illya’s defence mechanism. That chilling aloofness was how he kept people at bay but Napoleon knew him well enough that this manipulative ploy wouldn’t work on him. When his partner made up his mind to do or not to do something, it was near impossible to convince him otherwise. Still Napoleon was going to try anyway.  
  
“So you’re not upset about it, yeah right.” The American challenged.  
  
Illya’s face went red. “Of course I’m upset about it, chyort vozʹmi_dammit! I am not without feelings simply because I do not show them. I know it was not my fault that she died, yet...”  
  
“Yet she died for you. She pulled the same selfless move that you pull on me all the time, which by the way I don’t like you doing.”  
  
“It is my job to protect you as CEA and heir apparent to Waverly.”  
  
“No, it’s not. Just like it wasn’t Sylvae’s job to protect you.”  
  
Illya lowered his head;  the vodka definitely starting to work its magic on him.  He was loosening up, but not in the way he wanted to be as he suddenly dropped his head to his hands, letting out a barely perceptible sob.  
  
“It really is my fault she is dead, I should have made sure she was safe. Why could she not have listened?” He slammed his fist on the arm of the sofa.  
  
There was a tone of despondency in Illya’s voice. He was finally being truthful and had lowered his own little iron curtain.   
  
“Napoleon, I have danced with death in one way or another since I was a child, yet he does not take me. He steals the ones I care about, Sylvae...I should have taken that bullet not her. In Russia I was told to accept collateral damage as part of an agent’s life, but I never could do it. I think the Directorate knew that and sensed it as a weakness, that is one of the reasons why I suspect they were glad to be rid of me.”  
  
Illya was different from his partner when it came to the female of the species, he was not libido driven and needed to establish a bit of a connection before he’d go to bed with a woman. The relationship wouldn’t last long, given his lack of availability because of  his work, the lying and secrecy. One thing Illya did was to keep his personal and work lives separate. He rarely if ever dated anyone from headquarters.  
  
“Illya, the Soviet Union’s loss was U.N.C.L.E.’s gain, and just remember buddy boy, I’m still here,” Napoleon chuckled.” and I don’t plan on leaving you any time soon. Just to remind you it was Sylvae’s own fault. She was warned as you said, her death was her own misguided fault.”  
  
Napoleon was being realistic, yet he too regretted the loss of an innocent, but he couldn’t let his partner see that right now. He watched and listened, making sure he hadn’t pushed his friend too far.


	6. Chapter 6

  
Illya quickly brushed his eyes with fingers, hiding the tears that nearly escaped, sending his emotions back to where he kept them them hidden behind his wall. Then as if a switch had been flicked; he flashed Napoleon one of his sour looks.  
  
  
  
“So you are insinuating that I am misguided in my actions to protect you?”   
  
Napoleon paused, finding this an opportunity to divert the conversation.“Yes. I can take care of myself well enough.”He  downed his drink, pouring another scotch for himself, this time straight up  
  
“Right,” smirked the blond as he ran his fingers through his own hair, making it more a mess than neater.” Shall I count the number of times that I have saved your sorry zhopa?”  
  
Napoleon smiled, pleased that the topic had turned his friend from his woes. “ I suppose you’re right and I appreciate you saving my ass but it doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you doing it.”  
  
They sat together drinking into the night, commiserating and sharing their thoughts. Whether it was due to the drink, the company or the timing, Napoleon didn’t know, but Illya opened up just a bit.  
  
Somehow he’d gotten his partner to laugh, a good hearty one and that was a positive sign. His stories and tone of voice seemed to keep his moody Russian friend spellbound until it was finally time to head off to bed.  
  
It was three in the morning when Napoleon helped Illya to his feet, lifting him from the sofa;  the two of them staggering to the spare bedroom.  He slipped off his partner’s shoes, pulled the black turtleneck over his head, knowing that Illya would be asleep quickly.  As soon as his partner’s head hit the pillow he appeared to be lightly snore.  
  
Napoleon looked at the raw welts on Illya’s back and clicked his tongue. Illya would avoid medical at all costs if he could help it and it looked like this time he had.  He didn’t like going there himself, but when he needed treatment he would go...Illya however, wouldn’t.  He had an almost obsessive loathing of anything related to doctors, perhaps it was from things done to him in the Soviet Union, but those were details his partner refused to share with him. There were a lot of things in that category, his past, his family. He’d close up tighter than a clam when asked.  
  
Napoleon tried to steady himself as he walked to the bathroom, retrieving an antibiotic cream from the medicine cabinet.  He returned, finding Illya hadn’t moved a muscle, and proceeded to gently apply the cream to the wounds on his back, hoping he wouldn’t startle him and be punched in the face for his efforts.  
  
When finished, he wiped his hands on a towel and then slowly lifted a blanket over the sleeping Russian.  
  
“Spacibo moooy brat_thank you my brother. Thank you for unerstanding...and cepting me the way I am. I know I am not  easy to...Illya slurred, then passed out before finishing his thought.  
  
“Any time, chum,” he whispered.  
  
Napoleon wandered into the living room, picking up the nearly empty bottle of Stoli from the coffee table and taking it back to the refrigerator, He was amazed at Illya’s capacity to drink that much of the stuff and not be incoherent.  
  
  
  
Maybe he was right, the vodka let him relax. Illya rarely did that...oh he went through the motions, giving the appearance he was, but he was never truly relaxed, but then again no agent ever allowed himself to do that.  
  
There was alway that feeling creeping around, making their senses tingle, keeping them on edge and following them like a shadow that was on the fringe, staying just out of view.  
  
Thoughts of his partner were still running through Napoleon’s head as he finished cleaning up, and he sensed that ever present feeling, warning him like a shiver, reminding him to be vigilant even in his own home.  
  
He paused, double checking the alarm system one more time before finally shuffling off to the comfort of his bed.


	7. Chapter 7

  
Illya quickly brushed his eyes with fingers, hiding the tears that nearly escaped, sending his emotions back to where he kept them them hidden behind his wall. Then as if a switch had been flicked; he flashed Napoleon one of his sour looks.  
  
  
  
“So you are insinuating that I am misguided in my actions to protect you?”   
  
Napoleon paused, finding this an opportunity to divert the conversation.“Yes. I can take care of myself well enough.”He  downed his drink, pouring another scotch for himself, this time straight up  
  
“Right,” smirked the blond as he ran his fingers through his own hair, making it more a mess than neater.” Shall I count the number of times that I have saved your sorry zhopa?”  
  
Napoleon smiled, pleased that the topic had turned his friend from his woes. “ I suppose you’re right and I appreciate you saving my ass but it doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you doing it.”  
  
They sat together drinking into the night, commiserating and sharing their thoughts. Whether it was due to the drink, the company or the timing, Napoleon didn’t know, but Illya opened up just a bit.  
  
Somehow he’d gotten his partner to laugh, a good hearty one and that was a positive sign. His stories and tone of voice seemed to keep his moody Russian friend spellbound until it was finally time to head off to bed.  
  
It was three in the morning when Napoleon helped Illya to his feet, lifting him from the sofa;  the two of them staggering to the spare bedroom.  He slipped off his partner’s shoes, pulled the black turtleneck over his head, knowing that Illya would be asleep quickly.  As soon as his partner’s head hit the pillow he appeared to be lightly snore.  
  
Napoleon looked at the raw welts on Illya’s back and clicked his tongue. Illya would avoid medical at all costs if he could help it and it looked like this time he had.  He didn’t like going there himself, but when he needed treatment he would go...Illya however, wouldn’t.  He had an almost obsessive loathing of anything related to doctors, perhaps it was from things done to him in the Soviet Union, but those were details his partner refused to share with him. There were a lot of things in that category, his past, his family. He’d close up tighter than a clam when asked.  
  
Napoleon tried to steady himself as he walked to the bathroom, retrieving an antibiotic cream from the medicine cabinet.  He returned, finding Illya hadn’t moved a muscle, and proceeded to gently apply the cream to the wounds on his back, hoping he wouldn’t startle him and be punched in the face for his efforts.  
  
When finished, he wiped his hands on a towel and then slowly lifted a blanket over the sleeping Russian.  
  
“Spacibo moooy brat_thank you my brother. Thank you for unerstanding...and cepting me the way I am. I know I am not  easy to...Illya slurred, then passed out before finishing his thought.  
  
“Any time, chum,” he whispered.  
  
Napoleon wandered into the living room, picking up the nearly empty bottle of Stoli from the coffee table and taking it back to the refrigerator, He was amazed at Illya’s capacity to drink that much of the stuff and not be incoherent.  
  
  
  
Maybe he was right, the vodka let him relax. Illya rarely did that...oh he went through the motions, giving the appearance he was, but he was never truly relaxed, but then again no agent ever allowed himself to do that.  
  
There was alway that feeling creeping around, making their senses tingle, keeping them on edge and following them like a shadow that was on the fringe, staying just out of view.  
  
Thoughts of his partner were still running through Napoleon’s head as he finished cleaning up, and he sensed that ever present feeling, warning him like a shiver, reminding him to be vigilant even in his own home.  
  
He paused, double checking the alarm system one more time before finally shuffling off to the comfort of his bed.


End file.
